Chapter 34.
“Gambling won’t build our country for the next generation, but children, freed from poverty, will.” — Gordon Brown
We’ve been told a simple story: addiction is caused by chemical hooks in drugs. We’re taught that a substance’s inherent power is so overwhelming that a single use can lead to a lifetime of dependency. It’s a narrative of chemical tyranny, a seductive and simple explanation for a painfully complex human problem. But as Dr. Gabor Maté so powerfully argues, we should not be asking, Why the addiction? Instead, we should be asking, Why the pain? This re-framing immediately challenges the conventional narrative and points us towards a more truthful understanding. To get to the heart of this truth, we can look to the Buddhist Wheel of Life, which describes a realm known as the Realm of Hungry Ghosts. These beings are depicted with immense, empty bellies and tiny mouths, symbolizing an insatiable hunger they can never satisfy. This is a powerful metaphor for addiction, a state of being constantly compelled to seek something outside of ourselves for relief or fulfilment, only to remain perpetually empty.
The myth of the chemical hook falls apart when you consider common, real-world examples.
The compulsion we call addiction is not a product of the substance alone, but rather a manifestation of social and emotional disconnection. To understand this, we must broaden our scope beyond substances to include a range of addictive behaviours, such as workaholism, excessive screen time, or compulsive gambling. These are all desperate attempts to cope with a deeper need, a void left by isolation and emotional pain. This is about a person seeking an external source to fill an internal emptiness. This is why even seemingly harmless activities like buying a raffle ticket at the office can be a subtle but important part of this discussion. While colleagues aren’t addicts, the act itself can be a small-scale example of how we use an external reward to justify an action. It blurs the line between a selfless act of donation and a self-interested gamble. It’s a reminder that addiction is a subtle and extensive continuum, with its core attributes present in all addicts, from the workaholic to the impoverished substance user. The same is true for alcohol’s role as a social disinhibitor. Many people rely on it to navigate social situations, to feel more comfortable or to overcome shyness. While the effects are physiological—alcohol affects the brain’s frontal lobe, reducing judgment and impulse control—the reliance on it points to an underlying ache: the desire for connection without the discomfort of vulnerability. It’s a way of self-medicating for social anxiety, and for many, this temporary crutch can easily become a permanent dependency. These are all means of escaping the self, of temporarily numbing the persistent ache of loneliness, trauma, or unaddressed suffering.
The pivotal Rat Park experiment by Professor Bruce Alexander serves as a powerful metaphor for this truth. The classic addiction research of the past placed a single rat in a small, isolated cage and gave it two water bottles: one with plain water and one with drug-infused water. Invariably, the rat would become addicted, eventually choosing the drug over food and even dying from overdose. This was presented as proof that the drug’s properties were irresistible. However, Alexander’s experiment introduced a different model. He created a Rat Park—a large, social, and stimulating environment with toys, space, and a community of other rats. In this new setting, the rats had the same choice of water bottles. Yet, those in the rich, happy environment rarely chose the drugged water. When they did try it, they didn’t compulsively use it. They didn’t become addicts.
This study visually and conceptually anchors the argument that a person’s environment is more powerful than any substance. The rats in the isolated cages were not addicted to the drug; they were addicted to a way of coping with their isolation. Our modern, atomised society, defined by rampant individualism and digital detachment, has created the perfect conditions for addiction to flourish. As Dr. Gabor Maté suggests, addiction is a coping mechanism for trauma and profound emotional pain, a symptom of a deeply wounded society.
The prevailing critique of any purely social approach to substance use is that it neglects individual liability. This reality is supported by scientific evidence: genetic factors are now estimated to account for approximately 40% to 60% of an individual’s total risk for developing a Substance Use Disorder. This acknowledges that some individuals may possess a higher, perhaps innate, propensity for addiction due to factors like metabolism or the architecture of the brain’s reward system. Furthermore, it is important to differentiate between addiction arising from historical medical application (a consequence common to past medical practice, such as the case of Hermann Goering) and that resulting from modern illicit street drugs, as the substance and its context fundamentally impact the course of the illness.
However, it is crucial to understand that genetic predisposition is not determinism; it is vulnerability. A person may be born with a higher biological susceptibility, but this vulnerability is only a risk factor. Whether this risk is expressed as a full addiction is determined by the environment. The state cannot change an individual’s genes, but it can dismantle the conditions—such as shame, isolation, and chronic stress—that turn vulnerability into a crippling addiction.
The original chapter’s strong anecdotes support this: The vast majority of people who are exposed to powerful substances in medical settings do not become addicts. Your grandmother didn’t come out of the hospital as a heroin addict after her hip replacement, despite being given powerful, opioid-based painkillers for a week or more. Even more tellingly, a vast number of Vietnam War soldiers who used heroin on the battlefield simply stopped on their own when they returned to a safe, supportive environment, without any treatment whatsoever. These anecdotes prove that the substance is not the sole cause; something deeper is at play. Addiction is not a problem of pharmacology; it is a profound human response to distress.
The Icelandic Program for Youth is the real-world validation of the Rat Park principle at a national scale. In the mid-1990s, Icelandic teenagers were among the biggest drinkers and smokers in Europe. Scientists, led by American psychology professor Harvey Milkman, studied how the human body deals with stress and concluded that the choice of alcohol or drugs is closely related to how the body seeks to manage that stress. Instead of focusing on the substance, they looked for healthy activities that stimulate the same biochemical rewards (like dopamine) in the brain—such as dancing, music, painting, or sports—but without the harmful effects. Following this research, Iceland started a comprehensive, nationwide program. The core of this initiative was Engineered Connection and Health, whereby teenagers were offered free courses in sports or artistic disciplines, fully financed by the state, with each youth asked to participate for at least three months, leading many to stay for years. Simultaneously, Systemic Support was provided: the government adjusted the legislation by banning advertisements for cigarettes and alcohol, and parents’ organisations were created and worked closely with schools to support young people with mental health problems.
The remarkable Results were evident within 20 years, as the proportion of young people who regularly drink decreased from 48% to 5%, and the share of smokers fell from 23% to 3%. This dramatic success proves that when the state invests in proactive, compassionate social solutions to address the root causes of pain and disconnection, the cycle of addiction can be fundamentally broken.
Data Credibility: While the figures demonstrating this success are impressive, it is important to clarify their basis. The primary data showing this massive decline relies on long-term trend analyses (repeated cross-sectional surveys over a 20-year period) that confirm a sustained population-level success in preventing substance initiation among youth. This is not a single, traditional longitudinal cohort study that follows the same individuals into their 30s to verify sustained lifelong abstinence; however, the continuous data stream showing a reduction in risk factors and substance use initiation across every new generation is overwhelming evidence of environmental efficacy.
The conclusion drawn from this success is that the necessary strategy requires two things: studying the problem well and acting on the results compassionately, and, crucially, stopping the practice of putting tax income before the lives and health of all people. This systemic refusal to prioritize corporate profits (from alcohol, nicotine, and stimulants) over public health is the ethical foundation of success, directly challenging multinational corporations whose goal remains to create consumers for life.
Our society’s focus on individual success and material wealth has inadvertently fostered a profound sense of isolation. We are more connected than ever digitally, yet more disconnected in our real lives. Social media provides an endless stream of curated images of success and happiness, creating a constant sense of inadequacy and loneliness. The traditional social bonds of family, community, and religion have weakened. This atomisation leaves people feeling vulnerable and alone, creating a fertile ground for addiction. We are expected to solve our problems on our own, to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps, but this narrative ignores the fundamental human need for connection. When that need goes unmet, people will find a way to numbing the pain, whether through a substance or a compulsive behaviour. We are not weak; we are simply responding to an environment that denies our most basic needs.
Our traditional approach to addiction, which is often punitive and shaming, is fundamentally flawed because it fails to recognise its true psychological drivers. We treat addicts as criminals and moral failures, when in fact, they are deeply wounded people in desperate need of help. As Dr. Brené Brown has shown, shame—the feeling that I am a bad person—is a core driver of addiction. It breeds secrecy, silence, and isolation. Our punitive justice system, with its War on Drugs and long prison sentences, reinforces this shame, trapping individuals in a cycle of secrecy and isolation. This approach doesn’t offer a path to healing; it only deepens the wound. When a person is shamed for their addiction, they are more likely to hide it, making it impossible to seek help. This cycle of shame and isolation is a self-perpetuating trap, where the person’s coping mechanism becomes the very thing that prevents them from healing.
While guilt—the feeling that I did something bad—has the potential to be a catalyst for change, it can also become a debilitating form of moral injury, leading to a paralysing sense of unworthiness, particularly when the harm caused feels irreparable. When guilt turns into self-loathing, it functions similarly to shame, leading to more secretive behaviour and further isolation. This is why a new approach is desperately needed. We cannot simply punish people out of their pain.
A major part of our conventional wisdom about addiction is also found in the popular 12-step model and its offshoots, such as Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) and Narcotics Anonymous (NA). While these programmes offer a supportive community for millions, they are not without their own deep-seated flaws. As Drs. Lance and Zachary Dodes argue in The Sober Truth, the model’s emphasis on admitting powerlessness and its quasi-religious nature can be counterproductive for many. For people who are non-religious or who find the concept of a “Higher Power” unhelpful, a programme that requires a surrender to an external force can feel like swapping one form of dependence for another. This highlights a critical oversight in the traditional model: it often fails to provide a genuine path to internal healing and self-mastery.
Fortunately, a clear and compassionate alternative exists. The Portuguese model, which decriminalised all drugs in 2001 and reallocated funds from law enforcement to social support programmes, serves as a primary case study for success.
The legal response must, therefore, be predicated on a robust distinction between the user and the criminal enterprise. The crime is not the addict’s illness, but the exploitation and abuse of vulnerable people by traffickers. This model works because it recognises that addiction is not a moral failing but a health issue, and it is a strategic victory: the state ceases prosecuting the addict (the patient/victim) and focuses all resources on the organised criminal enterprise that profits from the vulnerability of others.
Instead of jailing addicts, Portugal directed its resources towards job creation, housing, and social support to help individuals reintegrate into society. Following the policy reforms, the number of drug-induced deaths and overdose fatalities dropped dramatically. Portugal’s rate of drug-induced deaths has consistently remained one of the lowest in the European Union, falling from around 80 deaths in 2001 to a low of 16 in 2012, an 80% decrease. Prior to the reforms, Portugal had the highest rate of drug-related AIDS cases in the EU. After 2001, new HIV infections among people who inject drugs plummeted, a huge decrease that is directly linked to the health-centred approach and harm reduction initiatives like needle exchange programmes, with new cases falling by over 90%. In the decade following decriminalisation, the number of people in drug treatment increased by over 60%. This model works because it is built on a foundation of empathy, not judgement. This contrasts starkly with the failed War on Drugs and shows that treating people with compassion and providing them with the resources they need to heal is not only more humane but also more effective.
The debate over substance use must ultimately return to the human cost. As observed in the critique, the root of the crisis is often found in the “pain of isolation and unresolved suffering”. This suffering is compounded by a society that often responds with condemnation, inflicting a debilitating shame that can persist for a lifetime. For groups who have historically faced societal marginalisation and systemic emotional trauma—such as the LGBT community—the pain of isolation is a central, non-illegal cause of distress. By clinging to punitive measures, the state acts as an enforcer of this shame, pushing the vulnerable deeper into secrecy and self-destruction. Our policy response must, therefore, be predicated on the principle that the cure for this suffering is not simply mandated abstinence, but connection.
On an individual level, a crucial part of this new path is cultivating self-compassion. This internal work is necessary for healing and allows a person to accept their flawed humanity, moving them from a place of shame and guilt towards a purposeful and connected life. Self-compassion is the practice of treating yourself with the same kindness, care, and understanding you would show to a good friend who is struggling. It’s about recognising that your struggles and mistakes are part of the human experience and that you are not alone in your suffering. This practice helps to disarm shame and allows for vulnerability, which is the gateway to genuine connection. The practice of self-compassion begins with self-kindness, which is the conscious choice to meet your own pain not with harsh judgment, but with the same warmth and understanding you’d offer a friend. This is complemented by the practice of common humanity. Shame is the feeling of being uniquely flawed and alone in our struggle. Common humanity is the powerful antidote to this isolation; it’s the simple yet profound recognition that our struggles and imperfections are not unique failings, but rather part of the universal human experience that connects us all. Being actively present enables a person to observe their difficult thoughts and emotions without becoming completely identified with them. This combination of self-kindness, common humanity, and being actively present can start to break the cycle of shame and isolation. It allows an individual to approach their own pain with gentle curiosity, to see their mistakes as opportunities for growth rather than proof of their unworthiness, and to open themselves up to others. It is this act of self-acceptance that makes true connection with others possible, because you can’t be vulnerable with another person until you’ve first accepted your own vulnerability.
The Twelve Steps of Connection
While the traditional 12-step model offers one path, a new path can be found by reframing its principles to align with our journey toward empathy and genuine connection. We can call these The Twelve Steps of Connection.
Admit the pain of disconnection: We admitted that our behaviour was a response to the pain of isolation and unresolved suffering, and that relying on this coping mechanism had made our lives unmanageable.
Acknowledge our need for connection: We came to believe that true healing comes from finding a sense of belonging and community. We recognised that we need to trust in the power of human connection.
Embrace Vulnerability: We made a courageous decision to embrace vulnerability as a strength, consciously choosing to be seen and to live wholeheartedly, knowing that true connection is only possible when we show up as our authentic selves.
Writing a dispassionate life story: We made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves, not to shame ourselves, but to understand the pain and trauma.
Share our story without shame: We admitted to ourselves and to another person the exact nature of our pain and trauma, not as a confession of a moral failing, but as an act of courageous honesty and a way to break the cycle of secrecy.
Embrace our humanity: We were entirely ready to accept our imperfections and to move toward self-compassion, understanding that our struggles are a part of the universal human experience.
Be a friend to ourselves: We embraced the choice to let go of self-criticism and shame, choosing instead to treat ourselves with the same kindness and understanding we would offer a friend.
Making a connection with the natural world: We actively sought to build a mindful connection with the natural world, recognising that it can be a source of grounding and healing.
Making a connection through giving others your time: We consciously offered our time and presence to others, understanding that a genuine connection is built by being fully available and attentive to those in our lives.
Live with self-awareness and presence: We continue to take personal inventory and, when we are wrong, promptly admit it, not as a way to dwell on our mistakes but as a practice of honest self-reflection and conscious presence.
Use affirmations to foster connection: We sought through affirmations to improve our conscious contact with others and the world around us, seeking only the knowledge of what brings us together and the power to carry that out.
Carry the message of compassion: Having had a self awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to others and to practice these principles in all our affairs, advocating for a world built on empathy and genuine human connection.
The most important lesson we can learn is that the opposite of addiction is not sobriety, but connection. The traditional narrative tells us that willpower and self-control are the keys to recovery, but this ignores the fundamental truth that addiction thrives in isolation and despair. Healing begins when we foster genuine human connection and build a supportive community. It is in the safety of relationships—whether with friends, family, or a therapist—that we can begin to address the underlying pain that drives addictive behaviour. This chapter is a call to action for both policy change and individual behaviour. We must choose empathy over judgement and work to foster the kind of genuine connection in our lives and communities that can truly heal. We must demand policies that prioritise health and compassion over punishment and shame. While we need to fight for change, we also need the resilience to not let a lack of change on a political or societal level be an excuse. We must continue to do the hard, personal work of reaching beyond any fear and building a life rich in meaningful relationships, because a life connected is a life fortified against the empty promise of addiction.
Next Chapter: Immigration and Asylum: Threat or Tragedy
Bibliography
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